How The Clock's Ticking Needle Pierces The Heart
by la-blanche-neige
Summary: Chronicling the AU lives of our bails bondsman turned sheriff, schoolteacher, and town mayor, if Regina Mills was missing something important, and Mary Margaret was hiding the Snow White we met in Heart of Darkness.
1. Note

**Note**: AU from early 1.02 onward. Begins right after Mary Margaret's confession of her fairytale character. AU Emma is starting to feel something for MM, but other than the f/f leanings, my lips are sealed. Changes also include: variety of fairy tale characters, Regina's past with Snow which in turn messes with Regina and Snow, August W. Booth, Kathryn's impact on the story and whatever may inspire me. Also, the only thing similar to canon!August is the writing/wardrobe. You have been warned.


	2. Chapter One

**Perfect Symmetry**

* * *

**i**

The only words that have ever had any real impact on Emma Swan were said long before she could reach any cookie jar. Those words were, in fact, the ones that mapped the rest of her life, the very ones that led her in front of the woman she stands in front of today.

"Snow White."

Mary Margaret's eyes meet Emma's briefly before looking away. She runs a hand over the nape of her neck. Embarrassed. Her mouth moves, but whatever comes out falls short before reaching Emma's ear.

_Sticks and stones_, Emma muses a bit distantly. The horror is taking its time to sink in. Two words never more felt like a slap in the face. Should she run away now, before the shock has her spit out something she might dearly regret?

"Who does he think you are?"

Her voice this time around heralds as a wake up call. Emma loosens her tense shoulders and shakes her head. How is she so affected by the fantasies of a ten-year-old? It's getting embarrassing.

Mary Margaret looks on, her eyes wide with friendly expectation.

Meeting her eyes, Emma's stomach clenches. It makes her voice come out a little funny. "N - no one—I'm no one. I don't think he has one for me." Trying to force some reason back into her brain, she slaps the roll of pages a little harder on her palm. "Well, at least you're not an evil queen."

"There is that." Mary Margaret agrees with a little quirk in her smile. When she sees it, Emma becomes aware that she has somewhere to be, but can't quite place it.

Not that Henry's fantasies are all of the sudden making perfect sense, but there is a Snow White to Mary Margaret. In the way her dark hair curves around her face and her lips manage to be the same color as the apples Regina brought to her hotel room. The moment the mayor intrudes in Emma's thoughts is the moment she snaps back to reality, grimacing and realizing that the schoolteacher is growing uncomfortable.

"Right—Regina mentioned the kid was in therapy? Do you know where he goes?"

The question does nothing to alleviate Mary Margaret's discomfort. Emma blinks a little fast. Did she notice?

"I couldn't say where exactly—" Relief floods in like a giddy teenager when Emma sees that it's her question creating the discomfort. "—but, um, there are only two places in Storybrooke where you can find child therapists—"

"Great! Thanks! I'll see you around."

Emma's false enthusiasm brings a smile to Mary Margaret's face, which makes it suddenly feel not-so-false in Emma's mind, and she heads out of the school courtyard, weighing heavily on her feet to keep from bouncing.

It takes a lot more effort to tone down the enthusiasm when she's alone.

**ii**

If Mary Margaret wasn't at Henry's shoulder, Emma's sure she wouldn't have been surprised to see the ten-year-old wander into the sheriff's station alone. Aisha is trying and failing to deter him from the jail area, and soon, his protests reach noisy heights, bringing the attention of the other officers. But it's William's voice that distracts Emma's.

"Hey. I said turn left—"

She lowers the plate. "Just a second."

"Swan—"

Tossing the plate aside, Emma makes her way through the mess of desks. Just she approaches the trio at the front of the lobby,

Graham exits his office, looking concerned for the mayor's boy. When Aisha sees him, she washes her hands quickly of Henry, shoving him toward the sheriff and dashing out to the lobby.

"Henry? What are you doing here?"

Henry ignores Graham. Emma raises an eyebrow, as if to say, _answer_. He lifts his chin up stubbornly, and Mary Margaret speaks up, giving Emma a good reason to look at her and to squirm yet again in the handcuffs. "His mother told him what happened."

_I wonder how she knew_. Emma grinds her teeth. "Of course she did—look, Henry, I don't know what she told you—"

"You're a _genius_!"

She freezes. "What?"

"I know what you were doing. You were gathering intel…" The kid bounces on the balls of his feet like Christmas has come earlier and the sight of his birth mother in cuffs for a second time hasn't traumatized him in the least. "You know, for Operation Cobra?"

Emma blanks. She prides herself for being able to pick a clue, but sometimes Henry just loses her. Then the kid does the eye waggle from earlier, after he threw the mayor's apple away, and she's reminded. _Right. It's a secret._ A smile tugs at her lips despite her attempts to keep from spreading misconceptions about how she feels for the boy.

"I'm sorry," Graham sounds as confused as he looks. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

"It's need to know, sheriff," Henry says, "and all you need to know is that Mary Margaret is going to bail her out."

Emma's head snaps up to face the schoolteacher. "You are? Why?"

She looks just as startled, if not more. Emma can feel her heart sinking and tries to force it up by back in place by her mental bootstraps without showing a flicker of disappointment—

"I, uh, I trust you."

Those three words push odd feeling into Emma's heart. They make it so light it floats right back into place in her chest. The corners of her mouth turn upward even as Graham tries to explain to Henry that the arrest hasn't even been posted yet and Henry argues that he can do it with or without a solid presence.

William calls her name, annoyed, from the mugshot screen, and Emma decides to play by the rules just for now. When he takes her shot, he complains about her smile, because this time, she makes no effort to hide it.

__**iii**

_Make peace._

Emma would say the word choice was a bit melodramatic, but taking 'Your move' into consideration, she doesn't really have the right to complain. There's also the fact that the mayor seems to have an obsession with dramatics. The basket of apples accompanied by a moral tale. The way she says Emma's name like it's something sad and pathetic. A shoddy frame job to convince Henry of Emma's alleged true colors.

Sitting in the mayor's checkered reception area, Emma sees that this flair for the dramatic has bled into her interior decor too. She's torn between anticipation and hilarity at seeing her actual office.

The receptionist, Leslie, pipes up from behind his desk. "You sure you don't want any tea?"

"Yup. I'm good," Emma repeats for the fifth time. Leslie nods and gets up, picking up his cane from the side of his desk. He strolls across the lobby and nods as he passes Emma by. She doesn't stop the surprise from jumping to her face and he chuckles. She shifts in the leather chair until he's out of sight around the corner, and makes a mental note to ask Henry why an evil queen would hire a blind guy to be her receptionist.

The doors burst open, and the mayor strolls out. _And here come the dramatics_. Emma waits, eyebrows raised, as Regina's eyes settle on her.

"Miss Swan—why don't you come in?"

Her cordial tone has Emma cautious as she stands and follows the mayor. The last time it came out to play, Regina tried to threaten her to leave town. Emma counts her steps.

If possible, the office is even more extravagant-looking than the upstairs lobby. Sharp edges, mirrors and black accents cover the floor and walls. Maybe it's just impossible for her to be normal. The mayor gestures, and Emma settles onto the leather sofa, which is the only real thing of taste in the room.

"Drink?"

She looks up. The mayor holds a crystal decanter filled with something dark. _You've got to be kidding me._

"I'm good," Emma says. It's less surprise and more resignation that colors Emma's tone as the mayor pours herself a glass. Regina already marches around the town like she owns it. Who says she can't drink on the job?

Spread under the coffee table is a carpet that looks like it was woven from sheepskin. Real sheepskin. Emma brings her knees to her chest, wraps her arms around them.

The mayor walks from her dresser and places her glass down on the coffee table with a clink.

"I'd like to start by apologizing, Miss Swan."

**iv**

It's common knowledge that teachers don't make six figure salaries, but Mary Margaret's apartment looks like a gust of wind could blow it down. Emma enters, counting her footsteps. The schoolteacher leads her to the kitchen, smiling. How did she afford the bail money with a place like this? Even though the money from Emma's savings account is now in the schoolteacher`s hands, she feels even dirtier. Getting bailed out by a stranger is bad enough without the stranger being in the same financial situation.

Emma bumps into Mary Margaret, and jumps back immediately. The schoolteacher rubs her arm, her smile unshaken. "I guess you didn't hear me. I asked if you wanted some cocoa—"

"Oh. No. Don't go to the trouble—"

"Don't worry about it," When the schoolteacher's hand presses against Emma's back, she tenses. The one plate and fork and knife drying beside the sink catch Emma's attention. _Shit._She lives alone_._This was definitely a bad idea.

Mary Margaret pulls out a chair and Emma sits cautiously. Sixteen steps. It would take only a few long lunges to get to the door, less with a radical jump over the shoe rack. _Stop freaking out_. She thinks about to Mary Margaret's words at the station. For some reason, they do the opposite of helping Emma relax.

The sound of cutlery and drawers being opened and closed doesn't do much for Ema's restlessness. The schoolteacher isn't talking. She invited Emma to talk, yet shouldn't the inviter start the conversation? Emma keeps her eyes fixated on the worn oak table. Staring at Mary Margaret and her thin shirt—Emma slides her arms off the table. _What are you, a horny teenager?_

"Here you are."

The mug is settled in front of Emma. She mutters a thank you without looking up, and steals a glance as the schoolteacher bounces away. The cocoa's prepared just like the old espresso bar next to her old apartment—whipped cream, a dash of chocolate sprinkles. Emma lifts it to her lips and the first taste melts all the nagging feelings away.

"Cinnamon?" she murmurs.

Mary Margaret pauses as she brings her mug and a plate of cookies to the table. "Oh, I'm sorry. I should have asked. It's a little quirk of mine. Do you mind?"

Her wide eyes tug at Emma's attention again, and she shoves away the urge to tell her that it's the way she likes her cocoa. "Not at all."

She declines when the schoolteacher offers cookies. They look homemade. Emma hasn't done homemade cookies in twenty one years. Bringing up the memory irritates her and she looks at Mary Margaret, who mirrors her next sip. What is a young and pretty woman doing home on a Thursday night anyway? Judging from the arts-and-crafty area that was still lit, it isn't as though she's swamped with work. Then again, thin shirt or not, this young and pretty woman does wear knee-length skirts straight out of a fifties' music video. It still begs the question of those three words.

The mug doesn't make a sound when Emma sets it down. The schoolteacher looks up like she can sense a question is about to be asked.

"When you bailed me out you said you trusted me." Emma meets her eyes. "Why?"

Unlike their conversation at Henry's school, Mary Margaret doesn't grow uncomfortable at the eye contact. She's still smiling.

"Well, it's strange, but—ever since you arrived here I've had the oddest feeling that we've met before." Seeing Emma's arched eyebrow, she ducks her head and hunches her shoulders. "I know it's crazy."

_I think I would remember you_. Emma raises her mug. "I'm starting to reevaluate my definition of crazy."

After an awkward moment in which Emma tries not to sense where the schoolteacher's feet are underneath the table, Mary Margaret pipes up, "For what it's worth, I think you're innocent."

"Of breaking and entering, or just in general?"

She shrugs. "Whichever makes you feel better."

Emma's gaze wanders back to her cocoa and the little dent in the creamy topping. "It doesn't really matter what anyone thinks I did or didn't do. I'm leaving—Thank you for everything," she starts, when the schoolteacher shifts in her chair. "But it's for the best. If I stay Henry's only going to keep getting hurt."

"What happens if you go?"

The moment Emma meets Mary Margaret's eyes, she feels the walls cave in around her. _Sixteen steps._ Her words don't help. Emma wants to scream that she needs to go, to breathe.

The schoolteacher continues, like everyone else always does, but there's a calming note to her voice, like it was built to sing a lullaby. "I think the very fact that you want to leave is why you have to stay. You care about him." She emphasizes when Emma tenses a second time, fingers tightening around the mug's handle. "And who will protect Henry if you won't?"

"Protect Henry from what?"

Mary Margaret frowns. She doesn't get it. Why would she? Emma stops herself from making anymore stupid assumptions. "He's got a good home, a mother who loves him—I don't see anything wrong with that, and believe me, I'd see anything if there was."

She takes another sip. "You really believe she has his best interests at heart?"

Emma flashes back to the reason why she was shaky, and leans back in her chair. What Regina did doesn't measure up to the things she's seen, the things she's been through. At least she didn't tell her foster child 'you're adopted' as some kind of warped punishment.

"It's not what she's done to him that bothers me," she says softly.

"Yes, but can you imagine what will happen once Henry finds out?"

Emma blinks at the sweeping aside of her confession. It seems like Mary Margaret doesn't give a rat's ass about her intentions.

Her dark eyes are bright, a bit pleading and ridiculously hard to look away from.

"Or maybe he has. Think about what he tells us. He thinks she's an evil queen, for goodness sake."

The schoolteacher's conviction makes Emma wonder. She looks at her and at the poor apartment around her. An apartment she would love to live inside in exchange for a steady job and the steady mind that comes with it. _But it's so, so_ small. She frowns and focuses on Mary Margaret's words, her intent.

"How can you be so sure of what she's like? I can't even prove the hold she has on that shrink."

Her eyes drop and so does the volume of her voice. "He's not the only one she has a hold on."

That is all it takes to convince for Emma to stay. When has she gotten so easy? Emma sighs and claps her hands on her thighs. Her last arrest was high profile and the amount of detailed paperwork she needs to write up and send in would have kept her busy anyway. "Well, it's not like I have somewhere to be for the next week and a half."

Mary Margaret smiles like the sun's come through on a rainy day, coupled by a rainbow and maybe even a pot of gold. "It'll mean so much to Henry. Are you still at Granny's?"

Emma's hand freezes around the handle of her mug. "Uh. Yeah. Wh—"

"She owns the diner too, did you know? We should meet up for coffee."

The schoolteacher looks at Emma for confirmation. _Don't react_, Emma warns herself. _She's a kindergarten teacher who doesn't have roommates. It's not a date._

Easing her voice in casually, she replies, "OK. Sure."

Mary Margaret hops to her feet, and the sudden movement has Emma nearly spill cocoa down the front of her shirt. "Great! Should I call you at Granny—"

"No! I mean, it's fine. I'll call you."

The slip-up doesn't get much out of the schoolteacher as she goes to refill her cocoa. Nothing seems to faze her. Emma chalks it up to being around Henry all the time, and finds herself watching her. As soon as she catches herself staring at the schoolteacher's legs, she puts down the mug. "I should be going."

"Already?" Disappointment leaks into Mary Margaret's voice. The small pot of milk bubbles, and she turns. Emma taps out the number of steps to the door on her palm. How can she make her back seem disappointed?

Then the schoolteacher whirls around, the brightness back again. "You're going to see Henry!"

"Right," Emma agrees, berating herself for forgetting. "But I have no clue where to find him, again, so it'll take me a while to find him. To apologize."

The brightness dims. "Oh. Of course."

Mary Margaret turns back to her milk. Taking the opportunity, Emma gulps down the warm cocoa and heads for the door.

"Wait."

_Please don't be cookies_. Her hand drops from the doorknob and she looks back. The schoolteacher stares at her own wringing hands. Emma faces her. The hesitation drips from her as steadily as it usually does from the shrink. So she doesn't have to waste any time finding Henry after all. Maybe making friends with a local isn't such a bad idea after all.

"Henry told me—No," Mary Margaret corrects. "I see him leaving Dr. Hopper's office around this time. Mostly with Regina, though, if you're thinking of—"

"Yes. Thanks. That's great news."

Emma moves aside as Mary Margaret opens the door for her. There's that same firm shove at the doorknob from before. It doesn't creak as it opens and Emma steps through.

She pauses and spins around on her heel. "Thanks for the cocoa. And the talk."

"You're welcome. I've never done this before, but I had a good time."

As Emma says goodbye to the schoolteacher and goes on her way down the hall, the first thing that occurs to her is how weird it is to call giving advice 'a good time'. The second thing occurs to her on the stairway, and this makes her pause once again. She studies the door leading to the third floor and its flaky red paint, and then resumes her walk.

For someone who's never given advice before, Mary Margaret sure knew how to pick her words.


End file.
